Morel Omelet

As soon as the dew was burned off I went out and got enough morels for breakfast. Took over an hour to make, as I wanted caramelized onions. A large three-egg omelet which provided a left-over piece to have on a sandwich at lunch. McGuane's new book of short stories, Crow Fair, is wonderful writing and quite comic. Read it today and started the new Llosa. Edited myself for a couple of hours. Feeling a bit cooped-up I went for a late afternoon walk and the light was extraordinary, walking back home, eastward, everything was perfectly lit and vibrant. I had meant to think about something specific (reviewing the way I spent my time, I had some questions for myself) and I ended up walking around like Sherlock Holmes with a magnifying glass. Blackberry leaves unfolding, buds on bushes I couldn't identify, the sound of water, in a small rill. Forgot, completely, what I had been thinking about, which I think was the point. When I get back I finish a small pan of short ribs of beef. I'd been cooking them for hours, after the stove died out, and I wanted to heat them one more time, so that their grease could mix with the beans. With bitter greens and a creamy blue-cheese dressing, this is a very good meal. I'm careful not to spit on library books and I only rarely leave a note, but this time I'll probably have to pay damages. I got a little on it. McGuane makes me laugh. I got my taxes off in time, I got a hair cut, and I was laughing, about the state of events. I needed to pay a couple of bills (I only have a couple) and go the library, where some books were being held for me. One of them, on head-cheeses and sausage, I've been looking forward to. B's brother Ronnie has promised me a couple of rabbits if he gets a share of the pate. A rabbit and morel pate sounds wonderful. Scott had made an excellent tomato and pasta soup at the pub, so I had a bowl of that, with crackers and a pint of stout, then came back home the long way around. Elevation is a major factor in the changing seasons, the chokecherries and the redbud, down at the river, are far along, but up here, on the ridge, a thousand feet higher, cards are played closer to the chest. A great many things, as it happens, are conditional. If this, then that. I zoned out, wondering if I'd learned anything. Not really. I can dry cast and put a fly right where I want to, I can handle a sling-shot. I can saw a cut, on either side or the middle of a line, determine what is plumb, and act accordingly, but all I've learned is to keep my head down, and focus on the task at hand.